


Like A Baron

by beachkid (binz), binz, shiplizard



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Age Play, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, M/M, Semipublic Sex, Vehicular Sex, Virgin Sacrifice, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/beachkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The warlocks needed a virgin sacrifice: they got John Marcone. Let it never be said that the dark forces can't make it work.</p><p> </p><p>Post <i>Changes</i>, tiny spoiler for <i>Even Hand</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Baron

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 round of kink bingo, for the **virginity/celibacy** square. In a canon full of virgins (and the odd celibate) why not make one more?

I could have told them that she wasn't a virgin. Not for any particularly tawdry reasons, as cradle robbing is not one of my many sins, merely that she was nearly eighteen, and showed a certain level of physical comfort with her date that spoke of biblical knowledge.

But the warlock and his gang hadn't bothered to ask my opinion; they'd simply stormed a dinner party and kidnapped the young lady. My people were at a too-discrete distance; they could not have reached the debutant before she was dragged into the van waiting outside the kitchen doors. What on earth ever possessed me to interfere as overtly as I did -- tripping one of the hooded figures and giving my business partner's daughter a moment of stability and a shove towards the exit hall where her father and my security waited -- I couldn't say. Perhaps the questionable company I find myself keeping of ...oh, the past decade or so. Chivalry and boneheaded disregard for personal safety or matters requiring subtlety must be communicable.

The young lady, I noted as dozens of hands grabbed me and a spell slammed over my senses, had leveraged her head start into an escape attempt to break Olympic records. Beyond that, I remember nothing until I woke chained to a stone wall, in a dank cell that was so perfectly designed in the Hollywood style that I spared a moment to look for the gaffer.

I was in the hands of traditionalists. It was an encouraging sign; the inevitable monologue would help me identify my attackers and give me upwards of ten minutes to formulate an escape.

The next half hour I spent assessing the chains around my wrists (modern hand cuffs, mid-grade, I could break out of them if was in a position in which my weight was not supported by them), the make of my cell (hasty, and not put together by any contractor licensed in Chicago) and my probable location (underground, near water, very probably in the section of fae-annexed commingled sewer pipes and forgotten subbasements that they called Undertown-- if not, near the border of it). If there had been another prisoner in the cell before me, he or she had neither bled nor excreted: the dampness on the floor and walls was only condensation, the smell only mildew. My captors had not struck me as the type who would hose down a mess for their prisoner's comfort. They had intended Mr. Wilcox' daughter to be their first tenant -- and only one, if the fragility of the concrete that held my wrist shackles in place was anything to go by. They'd hold up under the weight of a healthy teenage girl for a few days at most; I would be able to pull free with a few hours' serious work.

They came to fetch me only another half hour in. The head of the group -- the only one without a hood, naturally -- obviously fancied himself a dark lord. In case the all-black ensemble was too subtle a clue, he had helpfully outfitted himself with leather gloves (black), a heavy chain around his neck (not black), and an unfortunate attempt at a goatee (also not black). He narrowed his eyes in what looked like a well-rehearsed gesture and scowled, unfortunately thoroughly-established eyebrows lowering until they almost obscured his hard work and practice.

"Baron Marcone," he said. He pronounced it incorrectly. "Your interference was foolish. Perhaps even ...regrettable."

Good God.

I tried to look on the bright side. At least my conclusion was proven accurate. Traditionalists. I forced my eyes to stay alert -- he was far enough away that avoiding eye contact but maintaining a veneer of interest was easy enough, and I've certainly had enough experience with wizards and their ilk to be careful -- and tried to look politely engaged. And not like his inane drivel was threatening only inasmuch as it was making my brain curl up and die.

"But we should be able to salvage the night. Azeroroth prefers virgins," he told me loftily. "But for you, Baron, he makes an exception. He has even provided the means to make you more ... agreeable."

I was going to get another one of those long looks from Hendricks when I got home, I knew it. He's very skeptical about my intrusion into the supernatural political arena. As he bluntly puts it: "like enough people weren't gunning for you already."

"That's very kind of him, but please assure him that he doesn't need to take the troub --"

One of the black hooded minions stepped forward; I got a glimpse of the vial in his hand and slammed my mouth shut: better discretion than the last word. It did me no good: two more stepped in to help wedge my jaw open and pour the bitter liquid down my throat.

The alkalinity instantly made me gag. The minions held my jaw shut, tipped my head back until I swallowed again, and a low thrumming like someone else's bass started running through my veins. The thrum and pulse grew into a painful pressure, the feeling of a dentist ripping phantom teeth out of half anesthetized muscle. I could taste bile and old blood in the back of my mouth and gagged again, stomach heaving. This time the minions stepped back, and what I vomited onto the floor was unpleasant, organic, filth and tissue. I reeled, sagging in my captor's grip.

"The sacrifice is purified," intoned the would-be dark lord. "Bathe him. Place him in the ceremonial robes."

They did so with aplomb and unsettlingly reverent touches, holding my wrists and ankles firmly but carefully. Had they not managed to adjust to the idea that their captive was not actually a dewy young beauty, or did they all coincidentally have a fetish for the older American Caucasian? I was gagged and couldn't ask, but they really could have foregone the rosewater they poured over my naked body.

The white gauze robes, like the chains and the cell, had been sized for Ms. Wilcox. It was perhaps inevitable that when the metal doors exploded inwards and Harry Dresden strode in, the very model of an eighties metal album cover with his staff and flying hair, he would find me chained spread-eagle to a stone slab, modesty barely preserved below the waist and and chest exposed.

Miss Gard and Mr. Hendricks were on his heels, flanked by a pair of wardens -- Captain Luccio and a younger face to whom I could not attach a name. Dresden barreled into the ritual in progress, striking aside the circle and dispelling the half-manifested shadow in a rain of ectoplasm. The head warlock paused with sacrificial dagger held above my chest, and whirled to attack Dresden. Because attacking a man with a long wooden cudgel and far greater reach using only an unwieldy knife is _the soundest_ of strategies.

Gard pumped beanbag rounds from a shotgun into hooded cultists; Hendricks sprinted to my side, Gard's battle axe in hand. The chains smashed satisfyingly, and I rolled out off of the slab, diving for my discarded clothing -- not in the interests of dignity, but in the interests of the small switchblade concealed in my jacket.

The weapon proved unnecessary. The warlocks had apparently shot their organizational load on the raid at the dinner party -- they were all unconscious or bound within minutes, folding like a cheap crutch under the assault of my allies. Dresden and Luccio were restraining the head warlock, who was raving -- for a lightheaded moment, I expected him to curse 'you meddling kids and your Dresden'.

Luccio sapped him and he crumpled, the spittle-flecked tirade cutting off sharply.

"They fed me something," I said, pulling off my gag and letting it drop, hearing my voice slur. I took a deep breath and injected some spine into the words. "It will have to be analyzed." I dragged a handkerchief from the pile of my discarded clothes, using it to lift the vial out of the unconscious warlock's pocket.

"I will --" Gard started.

"The wardens will," Luccio said firmly, and Dresden held out a large hand for the vial.

I could see no benefit in being uncooperative -- I didn't need whatever demonomantic magic the potion was infused with, and I was quite happy that the Wardens should do my people's work for them -- and dropped the bundle of cloth into his hand. "I do assume you'll contact me once you know." I lifted my chin and envisioned myself in a suit, instead of rosewater and two yards of gauze. I felt as if my vulnerability was as visible as my nipples through the damp white cloth.

"Of course, Lord Marcone." Captain Luccio gave me a brusque nod. The Off-Whitish Council members then turned their attention to their prisoners, and my security people hooked arms under my shoulders and helped me out the door.

* * *

 

That I dreamt about the incident was not unusual. That it took the form of a wet dream instead of a nightmare -- with quite the revolving cast -- was much more surprising. There was a low-grade unpleasantness of being covered with kisses by a love-smitten Dark Not-lord, a cast of surreality over the tumbling, changing scene in which Gard ravished me -- fading into Gard ravishing Luccio as I watched, chained. Dresden stripping to reveal a muscular, rippling body complete with loincloth and studded belt. My body reacted to it all, dick merrily unaware of symbology or the feelings I might have towards these phantoms in the real world. Not unusual. The content of the dream was unfortunate and at times disagreeable, but not traumatic or even that peculiar, given the workings of the subconscious.

The genuinely worrying part came when I woke up in sticky sheets, crusted in a wide swathe across my legs and chest. I'm a man of a certain age. I wouldn't have thought myself CAPABLE of -- the physical demands alone to sustain -- it obviously hadn't been a single incident. I hadn't had that kind of recovery time since I was in my teenage years. And even then, I don't think I'd been capable of this sheer volume...

_Is that Niagara Falls in your pants,_ asked an inner voice that sounded worryingly like Dresden, _or are you just happy to see me?_

  
   


I was willing to leave it a low priority, though, until the rocking of the car on the way to my headquarters caused an insistent erection. It wasn't my imagination; my system was entirely off kilter. Hormonal imbalance. Some sort of curse --

Dresden was waiting for us. He didn't appear to have slept. And he was smirking. This did not bode well -- save that it probably meant whatever had been done to me, I was unlikely to die from it. Dresden's cowboy justice has not, of yet, seemed to have judged me fit for a messy end. At least not one that he would otherwise be able to intercept.

"Mr. Dresden," I said, removing my gloves and walking past him to unlock my office. Gard pushed forward to inspect it, and Hendricks stayed to loom. "I trust you have a report for me?"

Gard came back out, held the door open with a nod. Clear. Dresden followed me in, long legs and lean hips giving his saunter a cocky roll that made my sense of unease grow and my stomach tingle. Hendricks took the rear and shut the door behind us, assuming a watching stance, blocking it and our guest's easy escape, his eyes not leaving Dresden.

"Mr. Dresden," I said. "I'm sure your time is valuable -- and perhaps best spent sleeping, going by the state of your," I allowed a tight smile, "apparel." I gestured slightly towards his rumpled, coffee-stained tshirt, visible through the open front of his jacket, and, judging by the muck at the bottom of his jeans and on his boots, the same pants he'd been wearing last night.

"So you don't want to find out what it is? I get no thanks." He sprawled into one of the chairs in the corner of the room, pelvis low on the seat and legs splayed wide.

"I want to know what it is. I'd like to have some certainty that." I felt myself falter, just for a moment, as my brain took off running in another direction. "The tests were performed in a sound state of mind and body."

"What?" he said, slapping a hand to his chest. "I'm not good enough for you anymore?"

I crossed around to sit behind my desk, steepling my fingers. It was a noticeable effort to calm my growing agitation, as well as other things, and Dresden's attitude, although trying, hasn't provoked anger from me for years. Whatever he had found out, I needed to know. "I'm sure you can understand my concerns," I said.

His eyes sparkled and his mouth pursed. The scar through his bottom lip turned white, color flooding back into it when his smile broke. I counted it as a victory; Hendricks apparently regarded it as the final straw, moving forward from the door to stand looming over Harry.

"Dresden," he said, low and gravelly. My stomach clenched and I dug my fingernails into my palm. Not that. He had been my closest friend, my only friend for years. It was an imposition I was not willing to let my hormones make.

Gard shifted in the corner of my eye, adjusting her stance, and Hendricks glanced up. Whatever they shared, a little of the tension lifted from his shoulders. "I'm going to give you to the count of three," he told Harry, bending over him. "I'll even count it out on my fingers, so you can follow along."

Harry blinked up at Hendricks, turned back to me. "Does he have a word quota he has to meet each month? Some sort of employee development plan?"

People look at Mister Hendricks, and they look at me. In the doing so, they make certain assumptions, quite unconsciously: which of us, Mr. Hendricks and myself, is stronger. Which is more prone to violence. Which is more wealthy. Which is more intelligent. Which can correctly, and does regularly, use the word 'metatextual' in a sentence, which can not.

To a man -- or woman -- they always get the last two wrong.

"I'm sure you will find that Mr. Hendricks is full of surprises," I said, as bland as my office walls. "We are here, however, to discuss some other business matters."

Harry hitched his hips, rocking up and sliding his pelvis back until he was sitting up straight. Hendricks shot me a look; I'm not sure what I gave away, but our eyes must have held long enough for Harry to get antsy. He gets fussy when his attention is taken away. And he hadn't had his nap.

"I did the tests," he said, tone snapping back to business. "Haven't shared the results with anyone but Luccio." He pulled a rolled-up tube of paper from inside his jacket, and held it out. Hendricks waited for my nod, and snatched it up.

"And?" I said, hands spread, and allowed Harry his audience. His grin was back. I braced myself.

"It's essence of cherry," Harry intoned. "Metaphorically."

"Meaning." My eyes narrowed.

"You can wear a white dress to your wedding? You can throw out your unicorn magnets?"

"I beg your pardon."

"They revirgined you."

I frowned. "Then their demon doesn't simply prefer virgins. It requires them. Traditionalists."

"I saw that gauzy little get up they had you in. They were hoping for pooling shadows and maniacal laughter and your maidenly screams." He shook his head. "Hollywood."

I forced my mind to focus on the idea. It skittered away, and I dragged it back. "How-- this is obviously a spiritual definition. They cannot have erased the fact that I have had intercourse. That I know I have."

"Sure they can. The male body doesn't change much. There is the spiritual thing, of course -- but it's actually easier for guys. It's just shuffling hormones around, scrubbing a couple slates clean. Nothing to --"

"-- Do not say 'grow back'," I said, closing my eyes against the start of a tension headache. I was losing the ability to dance verbal circles around Harry--

I was calling him _Harry_ in the privacy of my own thoughts--

"I thank the council for its aid. Get out." I didn't open my eyes, but hardly needed to. Harry started to protest, Hendricks growled, a large shadow passed in front of us, and there was the sound of a gangly wizard being tossed bodily out of the office. The soft click of heeled shoes was certainly Gard leaving to make sure he found his way out.

"How do you feel?" Hendricks said in an undertone, once Harry's loping footsteps had faded away down the corridor.

"Overwhelmed. Affected by small stresses. Horny," I said, at least able to be blunt with Hendricks. "I'm not focusing well."

He made a displeased sound in the back of his throat. "And the last thing we need is a teenage boy running operations right now."

"I'm aware of that."

"Fortunately, there's a cure for virginity," Hendricks deadpanned, and I smiled despite myself. "We'll schedule a boating holiday. Maybe a week --"

"-- Two days."

"A week. A professional woman. You can get this out of your system and we'll keep the place from burning down while you're gone."

"With Dresden around --"

Hendricks chuckled. "We'll put baby gates on the entrances. That should confuse him for a week or two."

* * *

 

Talissa met me at the resort in St. Lucia. She waited until the door to my - or rather, Marc Richardson's -- hotel suite closed behind me to touch me, smoothing my clothes down, putting right the wrinkles of a seven-hour flight. She watched for my body language first, I noted: careful, but willing to take the lead.

I took her hands in mine and kissed her knuckles. "Thank you." I was going to take some time to warm to the prospect. I have a not-unusual discomfort, I think, in paying for sex, the misgivings that come with the necessary emotional manipulation, the questions of consent. My reproductive system, on the other hand, currently sixteen years old, wanted to stammer out a request and let her lead me to bed.

I was under no magically-induced delusions that my second 'first time' had to be 'special'. There would be no sincere declarations of love, nor something like it. No requisite bed of roses. I was certainly not attempting to re-do any events of my past. But an arrangement of mutual respect was not, I felt, too much to wish for under the circumstances.

Talissa smiled at me, lifting her hand once I'd released it, patting lightly at my cheek. "John," she said, laughing low and kind. "I've never seen you so tense. Go take a shower; we can eat at the restaurant. There is a seafood buffet tonight, and I'm told it's delicious. And then you can take me walking on the beach. After that, who knows?" She smiled, the lines around her mouth and eyes deepening. "I am not some of my girls. We have a week. Let's take our time. We've not caught up in years."

She kissed my cheek and took my bag, leaving me floundering for a moment in the doorway before I conceded to her greater wisdom and slipped off my shoes, undressing on my way to the shower.

She didn't join me in the shower, as much as my straining erection wished she would. I came twice, barely needing the friction of soap and my hands, and it was just enough to get me through the four courses of our meal without embarrassing myself. I managed to control my inconvenient reaction to some degree back in the suite as we changed into more casual wear for our walk.

"You know, John," Talissa said, from where she was seated at the dressing table -- dinner dress abandoned in favor of a long man's short-sleeved button-up shirt, a pair of shorts on the table, walking sandals by the bed -- taking out her earrings. I looked over to meet her eyes in the mirror and she smiled, familiar and friendly, and just a little coy. "The beach will still be there in the morning. And tomorrow night. It is two days before we set sail, after all."

I swallowed, felt my mouth go dry and my palms go damp, among other reactions, and crossed the floor to stand beside her, looking out one of the large picture windows at the ocean that surrounded the little outlet the resort occupied, the sun beginning to go down. "It does look a little windy out," I agreed. "Perhaps it's best if we stay inside."

I don't know what Talissa was reading from my body language -- or maybe from the years of our extended acquaintance -- but we took our time, her hand against my face, keeping our kisses long and slow. I fumbled with her shirt buttons until I could palm one of her breasts, struggling not to tremble like a fifteen year old making it to second base for the first time. She rewarded me with a little 'mm' against my mouth, pressing close enough that my dick, straining up against my khakis, could rub under the shirt hem and against her hip. She chuckled at me, deep in her throat. My ears were ringing, and I couldn't bring myself to care how eager I seemed, how unpracticed, how fucking _virginal_ \--

\-- when a knock sounded at the door.

Talissa looked over, breaking off our kiss. I gritted my teeth, then released my hold on her to hold up my hand to ask her to stay where she was, crossing into the sitting room and over to the door, my erection still tenting my pants out in front of me. I wasn't expecting anyone. I was on vacation at a location known only to Hendricks, Gard, Talissa, and myself. But that was no reason to let my guard down.

I drew up beside the door, palming a knife previously concealed under my shirt. The knock came again, and I debated whether to peer through the spy hole and risk getting shot through the glass.

"Hey, _Marc_," said a voice. "Come on, I know you're in there. Let me in, let me in. Or I'll huff --"

... Of course it was.

And that same old joke. I slid the knife back into its holster and jerked the door open.

Harry lurched forward, fist raised where he'd been ready to knock again, and I caught his shoulders in a bruising grip. I yanked at the front of his appalling Hawaiian print shirt, pulling him far enough in that I could kick the door shut behind him, slamming him back against the solid surface the second the latch had clicked.

His breath escaped in a woosh, granting me a few precious moments to get a word in edgewise. "Mr. Dresden. You will tell me why you are here. And then I may let you leave alive."

"Is this the thanks I get?" he said, wheezing. As ever, no sense of self-preservation. "I came to warn you, scumbag."

"About?"

"You've got a demon on your untouched ass. Most people would want a heads up." There was a certain amount of urgency under the flippancy. I believe he might actually have been worried.

I squeezed his shoulders a little tighter, put a little more of my weight on them. "Explain."

"Ritualus interruptus. And some demonic fine print. When your little warlock boyfriend died, something big and slimy came to collect the body. Not exactly unusual, but mostly demons only go for the soul. Don't tend to bother with the wrapper --"

"-- Harry. My temper. Is a little short of late. Get to the point."

"The demon wants to try again. It's coming for you. Probably with the reanimated idiot that does its mortal-work in tow."

I frowned. "I was not the original intended target. You're sure they're after me?"

"There was some ranting."

I grimaced. I knew the type. "Revenge?"

"You and your little dog too."

"I'll call Gard --"

"You don't have TIME. She doesn't have time. I don't know how far I was ahead of it --"

"John?" Talissa called from the other room, her throaty voice doing things to my hindbrain. I realized that I was leaning against Harry with my full weight, our point of contact no longer limited to my hands and his shoulders, that he was not _quite_ stupid enough to misinterpret the heavy weight against his thigh. His dark eyes were... darkening, and his lips parted very slightly.

I don't know what I would have done if the picture windows hadn't exploded.

  
   


There was a shout and a crash, and Harry and I almost collided with Talissa, backing out through the open doorway, swinging a chair leg in front of her. The rest of the chair, the one that had been at the dressing table, was broken on the floor, mixed with a snowfall of broken glass.

"What are you doing?" Harry snapped, trying to shove me back out the bedroom door, shielding me from the demon with his body. "Get out of here!"

The demon -- Azeroroth I would presume, unless a second demon had happened to break through my hotel suite window on a lark -- let out a bellow, and used the claws that ended one of its six limbs to tear the remains of the gauzy curtains off its brow ridge, scraping its head on the high ceiling. There was a piece of wood sticking out of its thigh, what looked like part of the broken chair, a dark liquid -- blood? -- oozing out around the splinted end. As I watched, within a second, the liquid ate through the wood; it fell, still dissolving away when it hit the ground, and the wound in the demon's rough grey skin smoothed over.

Talissa swore angrily, still holding the broken chair leg out like she was up to bat, and Dresden pushed in front of her, hand raised. I had a brief moment of panic -- the idiot wizard wasn't going to set the room on fire? Knock out the wall? If he brought the building down with us in it....

"Out! Scram! MAKE VERY SCHNELL!" Dresden bellowed over his shoulder at me, shoving Talissa back in my direction.

"I hate agreeing with that man," I said conversationally, and grabbed Talissa's hand. She stepped clear of her heeled sandals -- the pair mismatched, one I recognized from her dinner outfit, one that must of have been closer than the matched set when the demon came through the window -- and we made a dash for freedom.

Alas, we hadn't gotten five strides down the hall -- the ceilings were significantly shorter here, maybe Azeroroth would have trouble -- when I was almost taken out by a flying wizard. Dresden slammed into the wall. Or rather, the spherical force field around him did, leaving a giant indentation. "Run Run Run Run He Brought The Dork Lord!" the wizard babbled, and the decaying remainder of -- yes, large as life and twice as dead -- my one-time captor stalked into the hall, rough suturing holding his head to his neck at a pronounced, unfortunate angle.

"SEE THE POWER I WIELDETH, THAT MY DARK MASTER HAS GIVEN ME! THERE IS NO HIDING PLACE FOR YOU!"

"So much for the advantage of size," I growled, and jerked my head to pull Talissa's attention to a fire exit. We slammed through the heavy door together, leaving Dresden to fend off the demon's go-fer.

Azeroroth roared in fury, and a shadow fell over us as the demon made a running leap and cleared the one-story hotel, one foot catching in the pool as it landed. And here I had always wondered why a beachside resort needed a pool, but it really was quite handy as a demon-hobble. Azeroroth crashed down on its chin, spearing its thigh on the high spiked fence around the swimming area, a clawed hand scrabbling after us.

"WHORE," it bellowed, and it took me a moment to realize that it was addressing Talissa, not just swearing for the sake of it. "Sacrifice the Baron to me! I will reward you!"

"How?" Talissa panted, not breaking stride. "Better-- be good."

Gallows humor. Even a very small exposure to Dresden was catching.

"Beauty eternal. Slaves. Riches."

"He'll eat you," I said helpfully, eyes flickering to the shoreline, looking for vehicles-- none.

"No spoiled flesh for ME," hissed the thing, and I could see that its acidic blood was nearly through the fence that had trapped it. Where could we go, it was a damned island--

It made a leap, suddenly and from a dead still. One of the massive clawed hands swept Talissa out of the way, throwing her several yards away toward the surf; my instinctive bellow was cut off as it caught me on the backswing, smashing me onto the sand. I tried to take a breath; my lungs did not cooperate.

Azeroroth raked its claws down my body, shredding my very expensive resort-wear -- of course, because why not take a moment out of one's day to commit random destruction? It and Dresden would need to have lunch sometime, discuss technique. I felt a bubble of adrenaline-fueled laughter in my belly and was grateful for the winding.

The demon ran a nail over my now mostly-naked body -- good God whose captive princess fantasy was I _in_? -- and leaned close to inhale the smell of my skin. I suppose it didn't have any reason to hurry, but really, this seemed unnecessary.

"Sometime today?" I asked politely, though my voice was just a wheeze.

"I savor your purity. Your hubris," Azeroroth whispered deafeningly, a foul fleshy tongue stroking my cheek (and most of the rest of my face). "What can stand against me now?"

He was a Traditional demon. He knew his cues.

And so, of course, did the _hero_.

"I can, buddy." Dresden tossed the lifeless, re-severed head of the demon's acolyte into the sand. One arm was hanging badly; his blasting rod seemed to be lost. He squared off defiantly against the massive creature.

Azeroroth laughed. Maniacally, in my opinion.

Dresden dragged the gun out of his pocket.

He still hadn't grasped the concept of 'holster', it seemed. A white scrap of cloth from his pocket had tangled around the weapon; he made a high-pitched sound of frustration and shook it to flip the cloth obstruction away from the end of the barrel, fingers finding purchase on the trigger. Futile effort. Even if Azeroroth was purely a physical thing, the sheer size of him would have made a gun useless. Still, Dresden took aim. In the evening light, catching the rays of the setting sun -- I wish I were exaggerating -- the cloth seemed, for a moment, to glow.

There was the thunder of high-caliber gunfire. The bullet caught the demon in the stomach.

...and it screamed.

* * *

 

I cut my trip a little short.

The official explanation for the destruction at the resort was a gas main explosion. Telissa's broken arm was treated, as well as the assorted cuts and bruises we had accumulated. Dresden disappeared with all the grace and subtly of a clap of thunder, scrambling in the ectoplasmic remains Azeroroth left behind and a charred stain that must have been what was left of the not-lord's head once the power of its master was gone, a matching, larger stain later found in the resort hallway.

I believe his intention had been to verify my well-being, realizing I was mostly naked only once he was practically on top of me in his attempt to be helpful. Our eyes locked, the adrenalin evaporating, leaving my whole body jangling. He swallowed, fumbling his gun back into his pocket, almost straddling me. He's seen me in a worse -- and more exposed state -- but when I blinked, coughed, his eyes were oddly concerned. I winced; fear and anger were doing their work, and my body was reacting in the least convenient way possible.

"Put some ice on it, Marcone," he said, voice almost gentle, and my dick and balls went cold enough that I gasped. He tore a hole in the air next to me and tumbled through it, leaving me to slow my breathing and my pounding heart. It was for the best: the authorities arrived quickly, and the last thing the situation needed was Dresden's unique brand of crisis management.

Hendricks met me at the airport the next morning -- I made no effort not to resent the ease with which wizards travel distances that cost me hours, my flight and the extraction from the resort having taken most of the night -- and handed me a cup of coffee that demonstrated the foresight that makes him my most valuable employee. His silence, save for a wryly grunted 'Good trip?' until the car came to a stop outside my penthouse demonstrated the insight that makes him my oldest, possibly only, friend. "Your vacation's still on the books, Boss," he said. "Get some sleep."

I slept until almost evening, an experience grown long-strange but fitting for my second-adolescence. If I dreamt I didn't remember it, nor did I wake to any sticky reminders, and allowed myself the leisure of a long shower after my workout, letting myself enjoy the water hammering down on my muscles. I pulled up an old fantasy, the edges worn off by time, and worked myself to an easy finish. I soaped off and stood under the water for a while longer, my skin turning red with heat, the air thick with steam. The phone rang, and I let it do so: it cut off promptly after three rings.

I stepped out and wrapped myself in a towel. Once dry enough, I dialed Mr. Hendricks.

"Did you call?"

He grunted affirmatively. I thought I recognized his polite, non-urgent ring. "The research department delivered their report on Azeroroth."

"Mm."

"Did you ever get your handkerchief back from Dresden?"

"...mm?"

Hendricks explained. I felt a frown starting.

"Where is Mr. Dresden? Do we have eyes on him at the moment?"

"John, I'm not sure that you should do this alone."

"I'm not going to _confront_ him. I'm going to reason with him."

Hendricks barked a laugh into the phone, trying to muffle it a moment too late.

"Get me a position, and then eyes off. I'm going unofficially."

"If you're sure," he said simply: on those three words, he hung up. More understated but fervent protest even Wodehouse could not have imagined.

  
   


I gave into another indulgence on my way to Aurora, stopping at a drive-thru, and ate my chicken sandwich and fries as I drove. They settled greasy and comfortable in my stomach, and I felt young and probably too reckless when I parked my car a few blocks down the street from the drive-in and walked the rest of the way. I didn't have any beer to smuggle in under my jacket, but it was probably for the best.

Dresden was parked roughly where I'd expected-- where any car with a broken radio parks at a drive-in. Not that I'd had any experience of my own, when I was young and less solvent than I am now. He'd chosen his evils: near enough the speaker to hear, with his car's window cracked, not close enough to instantaneously implode it. I had a moment of disconnect walking towards him. I'd heard, of course, what had happened to Dresden's old multi-colored Beetle, and seen pictures of the wreckage. My head still took a moment to catch up to my eyes when I saw the pale blue Beetle -- the entirely pale blue Beetle -- and his tall frame in the driver's seat, head almost brushing the roof.

I tried the passenger door. It wasn't locked. How this man survives....

He squawked, almost upending his popcorn. I felt an increase in pressure around me, a crackle of something almost like static along my arm where I brushed against the power he had drawn around himself. There was a squeal of feedback from the speakers, and I clucked my tongue as I slid into the passenger seat, not letting him see the pounding of my heart. "Really Mr. Dresden," I said, "control yourself. You don't want to send everyone home disappointed." I suspected that if he knew what I'd just done, Hendricks would have appeared through sheer force of will and bodily carried me from the car.

Harry recovered his bravado with his usual speed, twisting to wedge his popcorn behind his seat. "Get out, John. The car's still new, and I'll never get the scum out of the seat." He sneered nicely, but his body language was cautiously welcoming-- no aggression, no territorial display. He'd been so strangely not-aggressive since--

Since.

"Mr. Dresden." I smiled, very faintly. "Shame on you. You of all people are in a position to know that I am pure as the driven snow."

He gave me a suspicious look, and jammed a hand into his pocket, dragging out my handkerchief. A murmured word, and it glowed a soft, diffuse white.

"Slow worker, John," he said, shoving the piece of cloth back into his pocket. "What's keeping you? Demons not a turn-on for the ladies?"

I ignored him. "You've figured out why Azeroroth reacted so badly to it, I see."

"Yeah. It's the first time a _maiden_ ever gave me a _favor_," he smirked, back on solid ground.

I arched my back, letting the vertebrae pop in lazy succession. "What is its... favorability worth to you?"

"Uh-?" Dresden's native dialect: confused monosyllables.

"So long as I remain -flowered and -virgined and technically celibate, you have a weapon of sorts against a not-insignificant swathe of the underworld. A weapon, happily, that does not work against any of my people. However, it's _immensely_ inconvenient to maintain this condition. You have no idea. ...wait, perhaps you do."

He spluttered for a minute. "It's. Jeeze. It's not like you have to LOCK IT UP. Just as long as you aren't-- " he made a very illustrative hand gesture, accompanied by less understandable stammering.

"Penetrating? Or penetrated?" I said helpfully, and in the light from the drive-in's screen I could see his cheeks go a splotchy red. "Anal. Vaginal. The more involved forms of oral sex --"

"-- Get out of my car!" Dresden yelped. "I'm trying to watch a movie here!"

I looked out at the giant screen, taking in the crackly print of _The Three Musketeers_\-- the Disney version. "I can't imagine why."

Dresden's panic was overshadowed with consternation. He does have the attention span of a concussed pigeon. "You and my research assistant. What's so wrong with this movie?"

"It's atrocious. Dumas wrote a filthy, sensual, irredeemable story full of filthy, sensual, irredeemable people." I leaned closer, basking in his discomfort, letting myself get close-- too close, really. "Nobody who was worth saving was saved. Cynics and lechers win the day. This is-- tripe. The genitals have been _surgically removed_ from this movie."

"It's NICE," Dresden protested. "It's hopeful and you don't _hate_ the people who win. Normal people like things clean --"

"And virginal and innocent?" I murmured, realizing that I had nearly crawled astride him. My voice sounded cloying-sweet in my own ears, innocent, a coo. My face had softened, eyes unnaturally wide, lips pursed in sarcasm. "Maidenly? Is that what you like?"

My judgment was impaired more than I realized (a side effect of said impaired judgment). I had slipped into camp, prodding Dresden for a reaction, to see him blush, to see him stammer, buoyed on by the aggression and ...other manifestations of too much testosterone, too much stress. I think that I batted my lashes at that point. I am regrettably certain that when he pulled me into his lap, I feigned surprise with a falsetto "Oh, GOSH, Harry!"

He ignored me, fumbling with one hand until the seat went back with a jerk. It didn't make a lot more room, but it made some, and I took full advantage, wiggling until I was no longer in danger of introducing myself intimately to the gear stick. Our hips came together; more to the point, my erection slid against his, a moment of rough friction and constrictive denim. He tried to trap his groan, and it came out high-pitched and strangled.

"I see," I said, putting my weight on my forearms, lifting up to grind down. "You do like it. Mm. Chaste. Do all the schoolgirls in your fantasies," I brought us together again, thoughts fragmenting, leaving me chasing after them. "Wear underwear? Does it stay on the whole time?"

"No," he growled back through gritted teeth. "Gauzy frilly white _dresses_. John."

"I didn't know you cared."

"I don't. Get out of my car," he gasped, hips lifting up to rock me off of the seat and back down.

"Or I could stay in your car." I looked down into his dark eyes, just dark brown rims around massive pupils. "Get my very expensive jeans dirty, and stay a convenient virgin." Even as I said it, I didn't like it. No amount of hormones could make coercive sex appealing. I started to lift myself off of him. He made an incoherent sound and grabbed the seat lever again; we plunged the last foot, and the headrest bounced on the rear seat cushion.

He hooked a long, bony arm around my shoulder and kissed me softly, his mouth chastely closed. His free hand fumbled my fly open and wrapped around the bulge in my boxers, far less chastely.

What was left of my brain protested, demanded to know if I knew how many cars were around this one, if I had any idea who could be watching, how badly we were steaming the windows and what might give us away. The bundle of testosterone and pent up sexual urgency that was running the show ignored it. Entirely. I melted into Harry's arms, nestling my hips into his, bucking against his hip as he stroked my thigh and buttock. We at least both had the sense to muffle the noise we were making. It felt so furtive, so guilty and so secret for such a little thing, a tiny thing--

I came, swallowing my exultation, ruining my jeans, and set to making sure -- by dint of wriggling in his lap -- that Harry did the same.

* * *

 

"So. You keep it in your pants. Or my pants. I never tell anyone that you're secretly a blushing virgin. That sort of what you were thinking of?" Harry asked, a long, lazy while later as the movie climaxed (aHEM) on screen. He was idly stroking my hair; I was half dozing on his chest.

"You'll safeguard my virtue?" I asked, and failed to keep a straight face up against that much irony.

"Sure. It's tiny and all alone in a strange place. It shouldn't be left unprotected."

"Sweet-talker."

"I'm sorry, Sweetie."

"I have a knife, you know." More than one. He didn't need to know about the rest.

"What's the title for maiden-rescued-from-evil-cult? Darling? Baby? Little lady-?"

"I could puncture your spleen where you lie."

"No penetration, remember."

"Idiot." Whether I was referring to him or myself -- the one who thought it would be a splendid idea to fling himself into the arms of his rescuer, regardless of who said rescuer was and what our business relationship was -- I didn't know.

But his arms were strong, and he was a reassuring weight under me.

"So," he said as the credits began to roll. "Do I have to get you home by curfew?"

"Mm. Yes. Or my bodyguard will ground me. He has a shotgun, you know."

Harry tensed beneath me; I could feel him craning his neck. "He's not --"

"Just how much of an exhibitionist do you take me for, Mr. Dresden?" I kept my face straight this time, let him go still and worried while he thought about it.

Maybe I waited too long. My own mouth decided it needed to fill the silence. "I'm on vacation for the rest of the week."

"Uh." It was becoming more and more apparent that I was going to have to learn the local tongue. "So. Does that mean you want to hang out or --?"

"...hang. Out."

"You know."

"Are we going to loiter on a street corner? Perhaps in a food court?"

"You brought it up."

"I suppose I did." I settled back into his arms, rested against his bony chest. It was more comfortable than it ought to be, no little bit because he'd taken a moment to rub in the advantage fate had dropped in his gene pool and disappeared the sticky reminders of our earlier activities. "You know it's ridiculous to propose that we be... friends of some variety. Sharing malts and parking at the lake and cheering the big game for the home team."

"Yeah, yeah, because life's supposed to be shitty and filthy and you screw around and try to out-cynic each other. Don't you get tired?" He touched my hair as gently as a man who'd never threatened to kill me, knuckles brushing against my temples.

"I'm not the damsel, Harry." I craned my head up again, meeting his eyes. _I have contingency preparations in place to kill you,_ I challenged him silently. Wondered what his own plans were to follow through on the threats he'd made over the years, if he was thinking about that inevitable future when he looked at me.

"You could be mine. I wouldn't tell anyone," he said, with a teasing grin, sloppy-mouthed and friendly.

...no. No, he wasn't. There was just a hamster wheel going round and round in that skull.

"Having my metaphorical hymen doesn't mean I'm suddenly a better man." I jammed a hand in his pocket, pulled out the handkerchief. Any appearance it gave of glowing was a trick of the dark. I narrowed my eyes, holding it closer. "CSB?" I ran a finger over the stitching in one corner. "You monogrammed it?"

He tried to take it back; I moved it out of his reach. "I didn't want it getting mixed in with the rest of my stuff. Get slime all over everything," he said, sudden surliness making the corners of my mouth twitch.

"CSB." He lifted his chin as I squinted at the letters. "...Criminal Scum Bastard?"

"Criminal scum_bag_," he said, sounding offended.

"Scumbag is generally agreed to be one word."

He waved off my argument. "It's not a monogram without three initials."

"I don't think that's a rule."

He managed to snatch the handkerchief from my grip, wiggled until he could shove it back into his pocket. "Well, it's mine."

The not-quite-sex hadn't curbed my irritability, or given me much more patience than I'd had for the past few days. "Dresden. Shut up. Forget the monogram. We've been at each other's throats for a decade, now. Why now am I suddenly worth engaging with?"

"I got some perspective. ...Besides, you're the one who came into _my_ car and --"

"-- By seeing me vulnerable and chained?" I cut him off. "By finding out, what, that I have some arbitrary measure of innocence that elevates me to fellow human being status?"

Dresden scowled, eyes dark and the faint, faint lines around them showing. "Oh, please. Your chest isn't _that_ good. I don't know if you're AWARE what my new job entails and who my new coworkers are, but I know from cynical and sleazy and nasty. And I know that you don't wallow around in it. If I can go from go-fer for the freaking QUEEN OF WINTER to being Thorg the barbarian with an intelligence stat of six once a week, you can be... a non bastard. Just for a couple hours. I can help you do that."

I was rather taken aback at the amount of lucidity there. Mostly because he was actually thinking more clearly than I was, understanding more than I'd wanted to give him credit for. ...and having the insight to call me on a bit of self-indulgence about my own fate and nature. The poles must have reversed, all the ships at sea would be lost...

The tone of his offer. That he could _help_ me. Support me. It was idiotic. "Being someone that a monster wants to eat doesn't mean you need to save me. That I'm any more worth the saving. It was chance. It's fragile. I could destroy it in an instant. It's practically secondhand." I was babbling.

Harry's face looked long and hard in the shadows, all sharp angles and old wounds. I felt young and somehow vulnerable. I didn't know if I liked it, but I liked his arms tightening around me, just a little, and his forehead coming down to rest in my hair. "I want to," he said, muffled. "I like being able to."

"I can't decide if you need a white hat or a white horse to complete your ensemble." I sounded cross and a little tired and not nearly as blandly dismissive as I'd hoped. He kissed my hair and pulled his head back, content to keep his arms around me. The idiot.

"...You'll be less in my way trying to save me then thwart me, I suppose," I said with a sigh, then used my fist to rub a peep hole in the steam fogging up most of the side window. The movie screen was dark; the parking lot empty. "The security people will be around soon to clear out the theater. You should drive."

I pulled out of his lap, sitting down in his passenger seat, buckling myself in as if this were the only logical thing to do.

We drove a while, turned off onto a gravel road. Slowed and finally stopped in a patch of dark and quiet.

"Oops. Would you look at that?" Harry tapped at the dash display, his face the very picture of innocence. "We're out of gas."

"Dresden."

"Don't freak out, John. I promise. You're safe with me."

And I was. Perhaps moreso with him than anywhere else.

Dammit.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sacrifice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/710089) by [peoriapeoria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peoriapeoria/pseuds/peoriapeoria)




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